


To Be Alone With You

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Holidays, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Joan Ferguson receives a visitor.





	To Be Alone With You

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write something a bit more light-hearted than usual. :) Trying to get in the holiday spirit!

For Joan Ferguson, the evening remains an ordinary one consisting of systematic routine. After finishing a lackluster shift at Wentworth, she goes through the motions of winding down. By the door, she slips out of her heels. One by one, the bobby pins ease out. Like toy soldiers, they rest in a uniform row. Pale hands slip through the iron curtain, freeing the notable tension that builds in her bun during the day.

One button at a time, she unfastens her uniform jacket. Shoulder by shoulder, she slips out of her blazer. To the hanger, it goes. A thumb hooks into her tie. Gradually, the knot comes undone. A hot shower banishes the day's labor. Firm hands loosen the knots in her shoulders. In her house clothes, she keeps her hair down.

Returning to the kitchen, Joan retrieves a prepared, frozen meal. Shortly thereafter, she adjusts the cubic tombs to ensure their uniformity. It's best to keep the puzzle pieces in place. She pops the dish into the micro for a few minutes.

While in wait, she retrieves a frozen shot glass and pours herself a drink. One is for rumination. The second is the only indulgence she spares herself.

Christmas Eve promises little reprieve.

With a flick of her wrist, she strikes a match against its box. A spark jumps to ignite the wick of twin candles. The warm glow coats the dining table. She sets down her meal along with the array of utensils. She sits alone, just as she has done every year since the passing of her dear Jianna.

Just as the fork grazes her teeth, there's an unceremonious knock, but it isn't a wolf at her door.

“-Vera,” she greets her breathlessly, shocked by the unwarranted appearance.

Her lips part.

You may as well render her speechless.

On the porch, Deputy Governor Vera Bennett stands. Mousy brown curls fall freely. She holds a token of her silent adoration in hand. In an attempt to project herself, she stands on the tips of her toes. Diamonds for eyes carry a gleam to them. The smaller woman offers a timid smile, but it grows along with her hope.

“I, um, brought you some pavlova.”

Along with the tilt of her head, the Governor quirks a brow.

“Come in,” she says.

A gracious step to her side follows.

“Thank you,” Vera chimes in time. Into the Devil's den, she scurries. To combat the summer heat, she dons an orchid-colored v-neck. The ruffles invite a fleeting glimpse to her throat. “I heard that it's named after Anna Pavolva. I, erm, well, I-I kept it chilled since it's so _warm_ out. And I thought you might like the strawberries instead-”

Out of habit, she drones on. Her hummingbird heart madly beats within her chest.

“Ah, ah. Enough.” Two fingers tap her deputy's plush mouth. Her lips feel softer than velvet. She remarks not on the fact – that softness is weakness. “I'm aware of the cultural history, Vera. Come, let's enjoy this.”

Joan gestures for her subordinate to trail behind. Even through a storm, Vera would follow. While the taller woman fetches an extra shot glass and a few plates, she ventures a glance over her shoulder. To her loyal confidante who sits at the opposite end of the table.

“I hope vodka will suffice as a means of... quenching your thirst,” she drawls from the other room, her timbre but a dull rumble.

“That's, um, fine. Thank you,” she chirps.

Demure fingers drum against the table once the lioness returns. She cuts into the cake and serves two slices. Once seated, they engage in a silent toast. Glasses clink. Liquor burns on the way down, but the alcohol isn't the only reason for their rosy cheeks.

Vera's brows furrow.

She recognizes the look of concentration well.

“Joan-?”

A bit of fruit lingers on her fork. She devours and she consumes, just as she was meant to do.

Vera dares the unthinkable. She reaches across the table and places a hand atop the Governor's. For once, she doesn't shy away.

The fork slides past Joan's teeth with a clink. Dark eyes wander down to the thumb that caresses her wrist.

“Merry Christmas,” Vera whispers, barely audible, but Joan hears.

And she embarks on one final indulgence.

“To you as well, Vera.”

She gives her hand a squeeze.

Black meets blue.

Funny how such a simple act becomes a treasured gift.

 


End file.
